Late Night Television
by madame.alexandra
Summary: A good partner saves your ass in a hostage situation; the best partner lets you wake him up in the middle of the night to wax philosophical. Light Jibbs/Back-in-the-Day. No angST!


_A/N: I'm tellin' ya, walking across campus is very stimulating when it comes to the fanfiction muses. Here's something light and fluff-ish-y. _

* * *

Barefoot and bare-chested, Gibbs opened his hotel room door after her fourth knock.

It was the middle of the night; his eyes were heavy and his hair was sticking up in odd places. He looked as if she'd just yanked him out of a deep sleep, and she felt a pang of guilt for it. He blinked at her and tilted his head, his expression groggy. His brow furrowed.

"'S wrong?" he grunted thickly.

She pointed into his room.

"Can I-?" she started.

He cleared his throat and glanced behind him. Clearly caught off guard, he looked back at her warily and then nodded, opening the door wider and gesturing for her to enter. He let her by him, closed the door, and fumbled with the light switch, flicking it on.

They both flinched in the sudden bright, fluorescent hotel lights.

Gibbs yawned.

Jenny crossed her arms across her stomach and rubbed one barefoot against her ankle, chewing on the inside of her bottom lip. He stared at her, squinting his eyes, no doubt wondering what the hell she was doing in his room.

She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly through her lips.

"Would you—is it," she frowned, an annoyed look crossing her features. "Can I sleep in here?"

Gibbs stared at her. He reached up and rubbed his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose as he processed her question.

"Um," he grunted, running his hand back through his hair. He rested his palm on the back of his neck, elbow sticking out at an angle, and frowned at her curiously. He wasn't even sure he was _allowed_ to say yes. He shrugged, deciding it was probably at his discretion as team leader. "Yeah?"

She looked relieved, and sat down on the edge of the bed heavily, her shoulders slumping. He watched her uncross her arms, run her fingers through her hair, and then rub her knees self-consciously. She had a distracted look in her eyes. He stood dumbly in the middle of the room for a minute attempting to figure out what was going on.

He cleared his throat and walked over to his duffle bag, rummaging through it for a t-shirt. He started to pull it on, and she spoke up.

"Oh, don't—you don't have to—" she broke off and bit her lip when he turned and looked at her, raising his eyebrows. He paused, his shirt half on his shoulders. She flushed. "You don't have to put a shirt on for my sake."

He put the shirt on anyway, but he smirked lazily. He tried not to let her wake him up too much; he wanted to go back to sleep. It had been a bitch of a day, and he was enjoying sleeping it off.

He was also enjoying her being tongue-tied, but it was a little too late at night to be analyzing what that or what her wandering into his room meant. He stifled another yawn.

"Can't sleep?" he asked bluntly.

She lifted her shoulders in a vague shrug.

"Where's Burley?"

"Snoring," she answered quietly. "Dead to the world."

Gibbs grunted. He tilted his head at her. She gave him an exasperated look, as if she knew she was baffling him and didn't feel like explaining herself. He shrugged, and gestured towards the lights. She nodded, and he went to get them, shrouding them in darkness again.

He didn't make it a _habit_ of sharing hotel rooms with Shepard, but he and she were inarguably close—closer than partners usually were, and it didn't necessarily put him off that she was here. He just didn't know what she wanted.

She readjusted and stretched out on the bed, turning her back to him and cradling a pillow against her chest tightly, her legs curled up. He yanked his covers back and threw himself back in bed, trying in vain to achieve the comfort he'd had before her knocking woke him up.

"You can get under the covers, Jen," he drawled.

"I'm fine."

"I don't bite."

She laughed.

"I wouldn't have come knocking if I thought you were a biter," she murmured.

He turned his head on his pillow and stared at the back of her head, his brow furrowed. It was understandable that the case had shaken her. She had been in a bad situation before he and Burley were able to get her out of it. He just hadn't expected it to shake her to the point where she couldn't sleep alone.

"You thinkin' about what that guy said?" he asked gruffly. "That threat?"

They'd had a hostage situation; Gibbs had taken out the perp, but he was one in a network of sex traffickers, and he'd seemed to covet Jenny pretty violently.

She was silent for a moment.

"No," she answered finally, her head moving slightly. "No, he was all bark."

"He held a knife to your throat, Jen."

"He didn't use it."

"'Cause I _shot_ 'im."

She was silent again.

"I know, Gibbs. I had to wash my hair three times to get the blood out."

He stared at her back again. What was he supposed to do, apologize for taking out her captor? It wasn't fun to have blood and brain matter sprayed all over you, but at least it wasn't dead. That had to count for _something_. He narrowed his eyes and glared at her.

She was quiet for a long time again, and then she took a deep breath.

"I didn't believe Stockholm syndrome was a real phenomenon," she murmured finally, her tone dull and unhappy.

He blinked, his brow furrowing. He didn't say anything, and it was best that he didn't, because she kept talking—a kind of slow, measured stream of consciousness.

"We spent…all that time looking for that girl, and she—she _attacked_ us," Jenny said skeptically. "She almost strangled me, we almost had her out of there, and then she tried to break my neck—little sixteen year old thing—and _he_ got that knife on me," she shook her head. "Turned it into a goddamn disaster."

She shifted her legs, ankles rubbing against each other.

"She seemed so scared and so feral," Jenny analyzed. "He held her there for weeks and did all kinds of sadistic things to her, and she turned a gun on us. Like she didn't have control of her own mind."

Gibbs turned onto his side, listening to her talk. He saw her shrug her shoulders.

"It baffles me," she said in a low voice. "I can't fathom—what has to _snap_ in your psyche to make you fight _for_ someone who—raped and starved and beat you."

He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

"That's why you can't sleep?" he asked gruffly.

She turned over to face him, her eyes luminous in the dark.

"It's terrifying," she admitted simply. "To lose autonomy—and then control of your mental function," she paused and lifted her shoulders, her lips parted. "It would keep anyone up at night."

She didn't mention that it wasn't keeping him up, and he didn't point it out. He studied her for a moment, thinking she was the only agent with the guts to interrupt his sleep to come and wax philosophical about a case. He liked it, but he wouldn't ever admit that to anyone—except maybe her.

They stayed late after hours frequently and ended up discussing the cases.

"Why didn't you think it was real?"

She crinkled her nose.

"Prisoners of war don't get it," she pointed out logically. "Men and women who are kept incarcerated in enemy camps for years return home still Americans."

Gibbs looked at her intently.

"Soldiers are trained to die," he said bluntly. He hesitated. "We're taught to sacrifice life if it comes down to it, not fight any path to survival," Gibbs' jaw tightened a little. "Hostages—want to live. Identifying with the captor, it's about a means of survival. Prisoners of war are usually subject to an international code of treatment, too," he added flippantly.

"They weren't in Vietnam," Jenny pointed out. "Bamboo shoots in the nails?"

Gibbs shrugged.

"It isn't called Vietnam syndrome," he said.

She laughed.

She hadn't missed his use of _we_ when he talked about soldiers.

She swallowed and reached for her throat, her fingers running over the thin cuts that the Persian blade had left on her skin. They were rough and scabbing over now. Her movements drew his attention, and he reached out to touch the scratches himself, brushing her hand away.

Her breath hitched; her hand rested on his wrist.

They weren't sleeping together—yet. They were just inexplicably _close_. They understood each other and worked together magnificently. They had clicked so quickly that Burley was still reeling from the slight of being replaced in Gibbs' favor.

"Were you scared?" he asked hoarsely.

She licked her lips and shook her head.

"Not when I knew you had a shot."

"You weren't afraid I'd hit you?"

"No," she answered, without hesitation.

His lips were on hers—before she had even realized he was close enough to kiss her. His hands slid slowly from her neck into her hair, thumbs still brushing the scars the Persian knife had left. She let her hands roam to his chest, gripping his t-shirt, kissing him back as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She passed the moment at which she couldn't breath and felt dizzy; his tongue swept at her lips and she parted them gasping for breath and then pressing her mouth back to his.

She pressed her body closer to his, seeking his warmth and his comfort, and he slid his arm down her back and pulled her closer, his hand splaying over her lower back, bunching the material of her loose shirt in his calloused hand. His fingers brushed bare skin and he shifted, half his weight on top of her.

She broke the kiss, her breath ragged, and he lowered his forehead to hers, his eyes half-closed.

"Jen," he murmured, almost in a trance.

He hadn't seriously thought about sleeping with her before now—she was attractive, he'd never denied that, and he had always appreciated that he was attracted to her, but he hadn't really entertained the idea of making a pass at her; she was his junior agent, and it would be too complicated.

But she was laying in his bed now, seeking respite from the case, trusting him, and he was noticing that maybe he'd been a little more than just attracted to her—and he suddenly though that this upcoming Europe assignment could get that kind of complicated in the blink of an eye—particularly if she was going to kiss him back like that.

"Jethro," she breathed, compressing her lips. She swallowed and raised her eyes to his, something both apologetic and firm simmering there. "I don't want to sleep with you," she said quietly. She paused with her lips parted. "Not—_tonight_."

He looked at her a moment, and then cleared his throat. He let his hands slide off her unthreateningly, looking apprehensive. She implied she did want to sleep with him but—he hoped he hadn't made her feel uncomfortable.

She caught his hand as he was pulling away and slipped her fingers into his, lowering her lips to his knuckles.

"It's not right," she muttered, half-angry with herself. "I shouldn't be—in a bad place when I jump into bed with you," she said to herself. "I don't want to be alone."

His eyes lingered on their hands, and he nodded with understanding. She just wanted to sleep. He squeezed her hand in his, and she pressed her lips to it again, her mouth lingering a little too long. He cleared his throat and she flushed, laughing nervously. She looked up at him.

"Um," she murmured. "Let's—turn the television on," she suggested.

He snorted and rose up on his side, reaching over her for the remote. She reached up and ran her hands over his chest through the t-shirt. He swatted her hand away. He flicked on the television to a random, basic cable channel, and she turned onto her back, eyeing it sagely for a moment.

He gave her a mock glare.

"Television, no sex," he drawled. "Startin' to feel married again."

She laughed, propping her head up and arching an eyebrow at him.

"Get real," she scoffed. "I'd never marry you."

"Yeah," he snorted smugly. "That's what they all say."

* * *

_Gibbs is like Henry the Eighth. Like, bitches know what happened to the ones who came before them, and the fall for him anyway. Tsk, tsk._

_-Alexandra  
story #119_


End file.
